Unanswered
by The Lonesome Rose
Summary: It was just a scouting detail and nothing was supposed to happen. Until he found her.


**Reading some Wonder Woman comics and came up with a "what if" scenario that Steve Trevor wasn't the only American officer she met. American's Super Woman with a liberal dose of Jeremy's Sgt. James from The Hurt Locker. **

It was hot as hell. Hot like he was swimming in his own sweat and was glad because it was the only moisture there was. Hot like slow broiled over a stove.

Sergeant James kept the lens steady as he panned over the flat hellhole. Five hours… five hours on spotter and then he'd be scraping sand out of his uniform for at least two. He almost wanted to stay here all night just so he didn't have to deal with the sand. How it got in certain places under his uniform he'd never know. You'd think the army would be about quality…well heck, it was pretty quality material until you peel it off.

Sand sand sand. Staring at him like it's mocking. James scowls, reaching blind for his canteen, not wanting to take his eyes off point. Dehydration. That's it. The sand can't mock. He uncaps the bottle and swallows two mouthfuls, letting the water trickle down his neck and tickle his collarbone. Water. Best friend against sand. Dully noted.

It's blatant there's nothing out there right now—it'd only been a routine follow up after the ambush so he hadn't been counting on the enemy being this stupid. It's quiet though. Quiet's good.

He shifts grip on the binoculars so at first he thinks the streaking read and blue fireball is just a trick of the light. Snapping back towards where it landed, he doesn't see anything but there's probably a dune in the way so he'll be cheating on the report if he doesn't go check it out. Lowering his binoculars, James picks up his gun and fingers his comm. Sanborn and Eldridge aren't far off… "Hey, calling one in. There's some kind of flash, maybe it's a bomb but looks weird to be one."

"Marking you. Stay sharp and stay back if you get a whiff of trouble."

"Confirmed. It's probably nothing." James takes it back in his own mind. He wants it to be danger, the irrational part of him does at least. Been too quiet around here. Scouting. Scouting. Quiet. But if he said it outloud they'll call him in and say he's got heat stroke. Jogging closer, he keeps the gun cradled tight in his arms ready to fire. But when he reaches the spot it's not…no, he's got heatstroke for sure. No freaking way.

A woman sprawled in the sand like a broken doll. A spangled skirt of blue and white stars scrunched up barely skating her thighs. A golden eagle with wings outstretched across her chest. Hair raven black that halos her head and seems to go on forever.

He freaking saw her fall right from the sky. The heck…

James crouches down next to her, noticing the gash stretching from upper ribs to her hip and gushing blood. He presses both hands against it, trying to push it back.

"Aheeea…" her voice is barely a whisper and he doesn't quite make out what she's saying, but at least she's responsive.

"Ma'am?" James removes one hand to pull the canteen off his belt and pour a bit of the water on her face when she whispers again, he holds the bottle against her lips. "Take it easy. You fell a hell of a way."

She drinks, slowly. Her eyes crack open and James catches a sliver of sapphire. He pulls the bottle away when she's had enough… "Whoa…whoa there…" he holds a hand against her shoulder when she tries to shift onto her injured side.

"Goddess, I didn't think…" she takes a breath. "Circe" she reaches down to feel the gash in her side, her fingers bumping against James'. "Athens?"

She wasn't making much sense. Dehydration, clearly. James slowly lifted his hand from her side to inspect the gash. Now that the blood had started to clot it didn't look like she was about to die. She had time. "Ma'am, I'm Sergeant William James, U.S. EOD Unit. You've been hurt something bad, but I'm going to get you to a safe place. Understand?"

"Yes"

"Have a name?"

She focused on his face, blinking a couple times. "D-Diana Prince."

He wondered at that for a minute. Prince? _Princess_? She was a knockout to be sure. Those clothes…matching bangles on her wrist…and was that a freaking tiara? Wait until he wrote up this in his report. "Alright. I'll get you up, tell me if it hurts, alright?"

She nodded.

James moved down to one knee, sliding an arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders, careful not to jarr her injury as he stood.

What happened, where did you come from, who are you? he wants to ask, but he keeps quiet. She's light in his arms, and although there's still blood seeping from her side, she radiates a quiet strength that James can't quite put into rational thought but it stuns him somehow.

"Thank you, William," is all she says before he relinquishes her to infirmary.

He changes from his gear into fatigues after scrubbing the blood and a half inch of sand off in the shower, but he keeps seeing Diana's face and wondering. Man, up, James, he scolds himself before going back to the infirmary.

Thirty nine stitches and resting, is the report he gets. _Thirty nine_. One of the attendants say something about her not taking any morphine but that can't be right. She's going to be okay though, they say.

"Can I see her?" He should file the report now, but it'll wait. He's pointed down at the hall and to the right, which he follows until he reaches room twelve and knocks lightly before pushing it open.

James imagined sitting beside her bed, waiting for her to wake up so he could ask her all the questions burning inside him. He imagined finding an excuse to run his fingers through her dark hair. He imagined the smile on his face and hers when she thanks him again.

Instead, he stares at the empty bed. _Where_ is his first thought closely followed by _why_. He shouldn't have expected her to still be here, but he wanted… she couldn't have… James shook it off. Something glints from half-under the pillow and he comes closer to pick it up, letting it rest in his palm.

It's a silver metal star.


End file.
